Tomato Paste
by The-Rose-Has-Wilted
Summary: A Veela Slash Fic. DMHP. Starts dark. Be gentle, this is my first true fic.
1. Chapter 1

Tomato Paste: A Veela Story

The-rose-has-wilted

Chapter one

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot bunny.

Warning(s): Slash! DMHP! Some sadness in the first chapter! Weird story! Clichéd veela fic!...

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The girl stared at the note. Wrinkled and damaged, it landed on her desk but ten seconds ago. Snape continued, the drawl of his speech wrapping tendrils around the head of every student in the class. Quills scratched on parchment, taking notes on the words, something or other. She wasn't really listening to him. She opened the square of parchment, gazing at the words. It read simply:

Help

linelinelinelinelinelinelinelinelineline

Voices in the room crashed about, sending the speech out the window, spilling out onto the extensive lawn. There was no patio furniture on this property; it was tacky. Malfoys are never tacky. Gaudy, perhaps, but never tacky. Terrified house elves bumbled about the passages, running down the long corridors and ducking into rooms. The doors were often unlocked. They led to dark and scary places, but anywhere was better than where they were before. Draco was on a rampage. When that happened, it was best to stay out of the way.

Violent pounding steps rang out, muffled mercifully by the carpet. The red carpet that took such a beating every day. For you see, that red carpet is the red carpet that leads to Draco's room. Said boy spent a great portion of time braving the expanse between his room and the rest of the house, and the rug suffered the brunt of Draco's misdirected anger. Draco had much anger, and most of it stemmed from one, single, solitary problem.

There was a word for a problem like that. He believes it is something along the lines of "travesty" or "injustice." But you must pardon his breviloquence; when Draco is angry, he does not like to elaborate. I suppose most people don't. And others will no doubt have to take it upon themselves to explain what is the source of our poor friend's misfortune.

It could be found to be correct that it all started with a kiss. Yet it is not the kiss you are thinking of. It is the kiss of an elder, the older, Lucius Malfoy and his somewhat voluptuous ways. With a certain veela. That certain veela who gave birth to a certain displeased seventeen-year-old.

This certain seventeen-year-old lay on the bed now, sighing his anger away. Draco Malfoy hated when things didn't go according to plan. And, judging by to the emptiness in the pit of his stomach and the pull on his heart, something was most definitely wrong. He moaned, writhing on the silky green fabric lining the gargantuan bed. A bed too big for one. Well, too big for it now, anyways. The boy had always loved his space; he hated the sweat that came with being in contact with another human. Now the bed was missing something. Someone sweet to write home to, to send a letter in a bottle to, to pour ones heart out to when it was raining in the big city.

God, he needed help. He needed help a lot. Malfoys are not sensitive. They crush all those in his way. Who would sing to the stars? They're just old light, after all. An ancient story still unfolding to us? No. Draco Malfoy had no feelings. They were buried, deep under him, and he'd be damned if he would start caring now.

Hogwarts started in another week; he could last that long. If he could see his mouth now, he would see. He would peek out from behind his own lips, watch them form silent pleas to an unseen idol. He would see all the lies he formed. He could save the spare parts of all the things he said, save them in a plastic bag, save them for later. Give them to his love. Can someone really die from a lack of love? He didn't think so. Even if you could, it still wasn't fair.

He needed a shower; he felt dirty, he needed something to distract him from the drab white walls, the bright green covers, the black, the colors, the others, the eyes. When he turned on the water, he could tell it was warming. He could see himself in the mirror now. He would go to sleep soon. Sharp and pointed objects in the room, staring at him, bent in and screamiming at him. Slash the mirror in front of him. It only showed lies. Sick, dirty, disgusting lies. He didn't look like this. This wasn't him. His pale, aristocratic skin wasn't pale anymore, it was milky, creamy, glowing. He looked like a bloody girl.

Lengthened eyelashes, taller. Hair still platinum blonde, yet no longer formed into the shape he wanted. It was still straight, and accented by high arching eyebrows. Gods, he could stab the mirror, he would enjoy the piercing shriek of metal on glass, he would carve his name across its face, just as his inheritance had carved its mark into him. It had only been seventeen years, how could the flowers be rotting already?

It couldn't.

It wasn't fair.

He wanted to boil it away, chop all the wands, the books the robes, burn the colors from them all. He stepped into the shower, hissing as it stung his skin, steam rising like a pit from the deepest of hells. Trying to create more pain then had just been thrust upon his shoulders, the aching logs and screaming stones thrown at his back. A perfect painting had been torn to threads, warped and hanging from it's frame loosely, slowly being replaced with a new canvas, weaved with bright satin threads.

Draco screamed.

His voice carried down the hall, as he leapt from the shower, his skin singed dead. There was no way... To his horror, dead skin fell away, leaving new, perfect, untarnished creaminess underneath it. It was unmarred, no burns, no pain. He fell to the floor, defeated. Beauty was far more than skin deep, it had seeped through his entire body, poisoning it, wrecking and pillaging the broken framework of his soul.

Slowly, he cleaned the shards of his broken spirit, cradling each as he placed it back in his heart. You can't fix a heart with scotch tape very well. Every bruise it takes loosens it a little 'til your heart gives way, and you fall. Poor Draco, this happened now. By tomorrow, he would be at breakfast, completely untouched, the varnish reapplied, the glamour would float around him, and the only difference would be that he was no longer just attractive, he would be the epitome of beauty. And he would know it. Show the smugness to the slytherins, to Dumbledore, to the Golden Trio, to the Golden Boy himself. He could take some of the golden glitter that reverberated off the boy, and rub it on his skin, suck it up like a sponge, draw the attention to him where it belonged.

But, that would be tomorrow. The girl left at Scarborough Fair could relate. But who could stay broken; who could reap an acre without a sickle? Until then, he would bury the pains in his heart, the screams in the back of the mind, his life. Kick dust upon it, 'till it eats the ground. After all, love was something for him to break down, just one more velvet- lined wall of spikes and torture. But... he had heard. No hook through the meat is as bad as a hook in the heart. He just wasn't sure he knew it yet.

If tomorrow, there were pools of blood on the ground, you could blame the death upon poor planning, right? No one could thrust a responsibility like this on a teen. And, just like that, a house elf popped into the room.

Draco's face lost its pain.

Lost its true feelings.

Lost its soul.

He smiled in on himself. People could take away most anything from him. They could not take his masks; his lovely little collection. The ones he polished every day. It still fit! Joy rushed through his system, he was partially the same person. No lilac covering could change that, no ill angel could slip that from under his eyes, his rose-colored glasses.

"Konny wonders if..."

"If what? You come in, unwelcome, and speak as if I've asked?!"

The poor house-elf quaked, and nearly keeled over. His skin was now ghastly white. He trembled.

"Get. Out. Now."

The elf didn't hesitate. It disappeared. The elastic snapped off, leaving the mask on the floor. Draco could not... could not...

He couldn't remember the name.

The name, he forgot. The name of the mate, the girl to be with, the one and only, the perfect one, He couldn't. The boy fell into bed, grasping at the sheets, sliding along his body, coating him in a misty cloud of cool. The august weather was warm, and the veela found it so uncomfortable. If he was going to fade away, it was going to be soon. The darkness could whisk him away, take him in the night.

'I'm not here anymore.'

And it was true, wasn't it. He'd moved downtown, and only thought about his past life in glimpses, and little rivulets of memories. Yesterday, or was it yesteryear that he'd woken up in the same bed, in the same, room, in the same house, and he had been an old form of himself. He had been the boy he wanted to be. Now he wasn't. Was it redundant for someone to tell him?

Tell him that pride comes before a fall?

That nothing can stay perfect forever?

That it was doomed from the beginning.

The boy moaned again, and slumped into the pillows. It had been too much to ask of him. How could he not love having a predetermined mate? It's been said to him, perhaps he heard it on the trip to New York, in the back of a book, in the most prestigious bookstore in the city, that everyone has a soulmate. Most never find them. Well, perhaps that was true. He should have bought the book. He wondered who had written it there, scrawled it quickly on the back page. How such a song could exist.

Draco faded into a listless sleep of brown hair and green eyes.

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Wow. I wrote that whole thing in one go. It wasn't meant to be so dark, and hopefully it won't be. We'll get to the slashy goodness SOON, I promise.

I like reviews. They makes me happy.

Ps. I was listening to Regina Spektor and Hannah Fury while writing, so if you find any lines I "borrowed" or referenced, please don't sue!


	2. Chapter 2

Tomato Paste

Chapter 2

The-rose-has-wilted

Disclaimer: No owning for me.

Warning: soon to be more-than-just-minor-slash!

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Harry Potter was relatively happy. Which was remarkable considering his current situation. A small room in the corner of a house is not a fun place to be, he could assure you. But, lying on a small cot in this room, on the brown carpet, behind the steely padlocks, he felt almost content. They could say what they wish, but he would not be brought down. Stumbling around in the dark, rummaging for answers in old cardboard boxes; he was done with that. Life would flow from note to note, and caress his ears once again, instead of assaulting them with brashness.

And why was the Boy-who-lived as happy as he was? Because a certain something was going to be happening again soon. And that was school. The boy fidgeted on his bed know, mentally packing and repacking his leather trunk. Gentle August breezes blew in the window, rustling the feathers on Hedgwick. It was so gentle, he could forget the bars, the turmoil, Voldemort, the whole world. He could write his worries down on a piece of paper, and send them out the widow, a silent offering to anyone. They could take the responsibility for themselves, and leave him be.

As if anyone could stay content for that long anyways. He rolled over on the bed, a shirt that was entirely too large bunched at the waist. Still to big. Why was everything too big, and he too small? Why was he cursed with his infernal shortness? He took a deep breath. No. He refused to become upset. He wanted to stay in the same mood, where you could cut your own hair, and laugh about it when you realized what a poor job you did. He wanted the air to smile with him, bring his feelings, an eagle spreading its wings to the top of a mountain, down along a stream, to a waterfall, to breath the air, saturated, down into himself. Wrap himself in that beautiful, warm August feeling.

The scratching and rustling of one irritated bird jostled him from reverie, slipping him back down into his body. He looked up at the bird, who ruffled her feathers indignantly. "I know you want to go out," he muttered, "but I can't let you out yet." It was only eight, and not yet dark enough to let the bird out without causing an irate uprising from one Uncle Vernon.

The letter sat on his desk, read and reread by now. Harry gingerly picked it up again, and read each word, like black lace, as it weaved the picture into his mind again. Ron was telling him something he wanted to hear; how could he not be pulled out of his shell by that? Green eyes blinked slowly, letting the pictures flow into his head. Some poor fool had it coming. That fool might be Arthur Weasly, for finding the muggle car for his son to drive. On a road. Like a muggle. It could just have been the man's inherent fascination with all things non-magical that had clouded his judgment so.

Why the slip had occurred, no one knows. We do know that as a result, Ronald Weasly was in possession of one old muggle car. Poor Molly, she had protested, a warning shouted to the fog. For like the fog, neither male listened to a word of it. Ron doubted his father had even heard the words his wife spouted. He just heard the tone. Any man who is married knows THE TONE. That's the sign that Mr. Weasly knew meant to listen and apologize rapidly. But he was a sponge soaked to saturation, filled to brim with the thought of teaching his son to drive like the muggles. He took none of the ranting in.

This was the situation that they found themselves in. Ron was going to drive Harry to platform 9 and ¾. And that, as everyone knew, was probably the biggest mistake in parenting ever recorded. Yet it would take place. Someone should put it on record. Harry let the breath he had been holding out, and chewed his lip in nervous anticipation. Only one more week before he got to leave this God-forsaken building, with all its identical houses in neat rows with perfect flowers and lovely lawns and perfect families and... And... And it made him sick. Just being here was like putting his stomach through a wringer and leaving it out to dry. Fear permeated through his skin, and sunk his soul. His beautiful sinking ship, soon to be at the bottom of the ocean. Staying here, without magic was a death trap. A field of Whomping Willows would have been easier to swallow. It wasn't fun being everyone's slave-boy.

The muscles in his back tightened, clotting cream. He refused to think of that now. The Dursley's weren't here right now. They were watching television, lifeless blobs of fat and beat waiting to rot. Yet somehow, he thought, it might be enjoyable to join them. They would merely grunt if he sat down, curled up on the end of the couch, crouching low, and watched with them. But he wouldn't. He would turn his attention to one of the three-foot essays he had yet to do.

Potions. What a miserable class. Couples wanted to kiss alone, and so did he. Potions should be the least of his worries. Yet somehow, Arrowood and it's frequent use as a neutralizing element in memory potions was supposed to be paramount. Teens should be focusing on other things. When would a self-respecting wizard ever need to know all of this? It was a waste of his time, he was sure. Hermione, of course, would gladly inform him, via lecture, as to the importance of such things, of schooling, and, of course, the importance of doing one's homework when it is assigned. Hermione, of course, had completed her essays within the first week of returning home.

But that was how Hermione was, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He liked his friends as they were. And he liked his enemies the same. It was nice when things stayed the same. Things were so much easier to take for granted when they stayed the same. If you always live in the same house, you never appreciate the lovely shade of yellow it is. But, that's how life works.

It was probably about time for Harry to turn in for the night. The lights were starting to fade across the street, and the streetlights were coming on, like glowing fireflies. The night was illuminated by lazy stars, and the warm air meandered through the room, warming it and its sole inhabitant. It was hot. Too hot for comfort. he lay down on his pillow, kicking his sheets to the floor. The light was sitting next to him.

He liked looking at the lamp. It reminded him that everything, even when fragile can last. That lamp had been through a lot, yet it was still standing, holding vigil over the room. It filled the boy with a sense of inner peace. Like a candle, he flicked the bulb out. Now, the darkness washed over him. Relaxed waves ran down his spine. He closed his eyes in contentment. His thoughts brushed on the edge of consciousness for a moment, before stumbling over the line.

It was then that one, solitary, lonely, confusing, inspiring, _marvelous_ word flickered to life in the back of his mind.

'Mine.'

Harry's eyes opened, and he scanned the room, nervous as a newborn lamb. His brain was spinning now. Did Voldemort communicate with him again? No. That couldn't have been him. Why would Voldemort say that? Besides, his scar hadn't hurt at all as it did when that happened. In fact, he had felt kind of... nice.

In fact, it was nice, and he liked it. Harry shook his head. No. He should most definitely not like that. He should feel nervous, afraid. Angry. Harry should be angry. Hew belonged to no one, he was in control for once now, in a way. He had control. Yet, for some reason, he didn't quite...

It was like airwaves from some distant radio. Some ancient beacon that had shined in his direction. And, he missed it. How could anything so brief have such an effect on someone? How can one, measly word rip something from the central coil of his body, let him know that all along, he had been missing something... Someone... And now, he needed that person.

It was still August, and the streetlights were on, glowing orbs in the night. The breeze was still warm on his face. Yet, even all of this was not enough to warm the dull coolness spreading through the seventeen-year-old's body. Something was wrong, his body was saying. But the poor boy's mind was not in total agreement with what could be taken as obvious. For, you see, Harry Potter did not depend on some foreign source. He knew and respected his teachers, but he had met them all, met their gaze and held it.

Perhaps it all stemmed from a fear long-built into his subconscious. Do not trust those that you cannot see. Yet Harry found himself inclined to tip his hat of to this foreigner; let him hold the reigns of his fate. And that was a frightening thought. You can't give yourself completely to someone else... can you? He was almost one hundred percent sure. But, perhaps a small fraction of him _wanted_ to let himself be held, be... NO. He most certainly did not want that. If anything, he was the one rescuing the damsel in distress, not the poor lass herself.

He let his own harsh whispers spiral up his head, filling in all the cracks his theory had. He would control himself, thank you very much. His own thoughts twisted his view, clouding his eyes, detaching his retinas from the sight in front of him. Not that it was an unpleasant picture, just that it... well it... it wasn't him. Like a train, the thoughts in his head turned their lights on as they sped into the night. If he were boarding the train, could he see them serving late night tea? Yes. Yes, he could. He could see every piece of coal thrown into the engine, every crevice in each napkin, every smile a little girl sent to a fleeting valley, see each detail. For he was Harry Potter. And, there never was a mess that he could not solve; that he could not overcome.

Can one be imprisoned in their mind? He doubted that too. If you could, many more people would be incapable lumps of flesh, sitting and waiting for someone to help wipe away the drool. But he was not like that.

Because, he rationalized, who has saved the wizarding world more times than he'd care to count. No. And, with that, Harry Potter, the boy who lived turned his attention away from that one word that had been plaguing him for the past half hour, and surrendered himself to sleep's dark and comforting company. He would be fine.

Just fine.

Just fine...

Fine.

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Well, this one took a little longer. Please, even though this update came pretty soon, I cannot promise regular updates because I am creative (read: disorganized, kind of nuts, but in a good way) person. Next Chapter should be the trip to the train station where our two lovers will meet! (hopefully) Thank you reviewers!

Though, more reviews are always nice!


	3. Chapter 3

Tomato Paste

Chapter 3

The-rose-has-wilted

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. I will assume that you guys will have figured that out by now, and this disclaimer will stand for all following chapters.

Warnings: Slash is starting to get cooking now! Ruitine slash warnings apply! Your results may vary!

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here were many pretty, happy birds floating gleefully about the air outside Draco Malfoy's room. Draco Malfoy did not like birds. In fact, birds were thee bane of the boys entire existence. Yes, well, Draco could be shallow when he was tired. For you see, he is not a morning person, or "idiot," as he so dubbed them.

But, that was just one more thing on a long list of things that Draco did not like, so many of his grumblings went unnoticed, the constant whispering of a shell into your ear. Maybe he didn't like that. Draco did not like to be ignored, and yet, he was being ignore right now. Perhaps he was going to have to admit, let others rule a little plot of his heart as well... And maybe Hell would freeze over as well.

His stomach had been churning for the past week, and that could have had a slight effect on his temper. But, today was the day he would board the Hogwarts Express, he would be back. Draco Malfoy would be back. Because school was always the same. No one ever made any overhauling discoveries over the summer. Tomatoes always grow the same way, don't they? Aren't they going to do the same, again. They should. He would go back, and the same coolness of the dungeon would be the familiar face, coming to greet him again. And, all would be right with the world.

But it was like a Lily, the truth and the realization. Because, you know, Irises will open if you leave them in a jar of hot water, ready to face the sun. Soon, he would tire of fighting imaginary monsters, right? It was a surprise, wasn't it, how people could polarize so quickly. And Draco would have none of it. He was different. He always had been. It all lied in the last name. Once you see the legendary letters, you found a key to respect, and the cornucopia of good living. That was what he had been presented with at birth. Could that birthright be taken away, dashed and diced and divvied up amongst the rabid dogs waiting for such a sweet piece of dead flesh. No, he would not, simple as that. Because being a Malfoy made him special, an exception to the rule. And, if the rule stated that he would actually have.. ugh.. "feelings" for someone, who was to say a Malfoy veela had to follow such a trivial law.

But it was a natural law, wasn't it. His thoughts were interrupted at that moment. Mother dearest came in; it was time to leave. The boy sighed in exasperation. Finally. He had long ago packed his trunk, full of all of the things he would need. All the textbooks, the parchment, the quills, the ink, the rest. He had planned well, even did all the essays in the correct format. A boy known for getting what he wanted, when he wanted it was not famous for remarkable summer work.

"Snape and Dumbledore have been informed of your current.. predicament," his mother said curtly. He would have remarked upon the unfairness of the situation, had he not noticed his mother's obvious dislike of such a notion. Her face looked like she had been expecting a full cup of tea, and had only gotten the ground end of the leaves. Utter discord floated from the room, building the energy in the immense space. And, as soon as it had began, the mother veela snapped the case shut, and grounded them, once again, firmly to the planet's surface.

She grabbed the white gloves from off the shelf, because Malfoys look better than everyone else, even if the only ones to impress are the drunken bums at London Station. It was a family practice, a code they all followed. No more words were said about it. "Be prepared," his mother spoke sharply. "Your powers will be completely uncontrollable until you find your mate. Be careful, for at times, you will be irresistible to anyone."

Draco nodded in that way that indicated that he had absolutely as little interest in the matter as he could, yet his mother knew he was listening. Malfoys can look however they like, and you never know what they are thinking. A skill taught at birth.

"Attraction is powerful, Draco. You will be able to bring others to their knees. I trust you will remain sane in what you do, or some rather... undesirable things could happen. Make finding your mate top priority. Do not ignore it."

And that was all she had to say on the subject, before they apparated. If you liked succinct, then Narcissa, was the element of choice, the embodied spirit. Kindred and so on. But that was how she was raised, a victim of the times. Narcissa did not explain more than she had to. And that was enough. It's true, you expect what you are given. Truth is at the root of most old sayings. It's a matter of peeling off layers of lies to get to the nugget of pure intelligence. Many things have been said for the value of gold, but there is never enough said for knowledge. Or love. How can something be both over-rated and under-rated? The magical quality we assign to all our siren songs, all the things we don't understand. Everything's so easy when you don't admit to it. Or understand it.

But, as quickly as the thought had entered his head, it was jostled free. And, before he knew it, he had sped through the wall, Narcissa waving as he passed.

iamalineiamalineiamalineiamaline

Draco boarded the train, after leaving all his baggage at the front carriage. They could carry it for him, as far as he was concerned. Draco wasn't concerned with many things. He boarded the train, an air of confidence trailing at his feet. He made his way down the lo9ng corridor, to a seat that he knew would be untaken. Because it was his seat. And NO ONE took Draco Malfoy's seat. Ever.

There were doors in his way. He pushed them open, let the light shine through. Through the glass. He breathed a sigh. There was Pansy. Like a joyful puppy at its master's feet. A puppy that would have lost control of its bladder, had it waited any longer. Well, one thing was for sure. Pansy was most definitely not his mate. His mate wouldn't be so... gross to him. Then again...

Draco wished that Blaise would stop staring at him. It was unnerving. There eyes were large, absorbent, soaking up his image. This was not good. Hormones. Powers. Draco needed to find someone... who was it? He couldn't remember. He needed to remember the name. Everything could be so easy. So easy. Then he could stop receiving funny looks.

"I'm going out." He stated it as a fact, ringing in the other's ears. "The air here is too full of hormones." He spat the word "hormones" out with as much disgust as he could muster. Really, the whole notion was ridiculous. Others so ridden with the stuff that they couldn't think straight. Although... He had to admit, there was a certain enjoyment to be had by controlling a person's every thought. After all, it was always nice to have slaves. Slaves to do the laundry, the cooking, the cleaning, the...

And such was the mood poor Draco was in when a delightful scent nearly bowled him over.

ithinkiamalineithinkiamalineithinkiamaline

Draco had wandered far down one corridor of the train. Most everyone was seated in cars, the doors open, the eyes following him down the carpet. Draco was mumbling about something when something that smelled of cinnamon sugar and cream found its way up his nose. And he paused a moment, his knees weakening. That smelled very, very... good. Delectable, even. Something so mouth-watering-ly good he couldn't stand it. It was as if someone had put the most delicious pecan pie and ice cream under your nose, and you hadn't eaten all day. And you wanted that piece of pie like you've never wanted anything before. Now, you'll understand what he did next.

Draco stumbled down the passageway, his eyes no longer seeing. Cinnamon, sugar, cream, it was all he could think of, see, hear. And, it was getting stronger, bigger, larger, 'till it threatened to burst his heart, throw off the cogs of his head, make thoughts in his mind less of a river. Not even a trickle left that wasn't screaming at the scent behind his eyes, light as hydrogen. Hydrogen can burn. And when a little spark of recognition hits you, your whole ship can go up in flames.

For it was at this time that Draco reached the room, the door open. That golden scent filled his senses, his common sense departing. In the room was... The Golden Trio.

And there was the spark.

And Draco's heart was on fire, erupting. His eyes want up, he was out of breath. It was late morning. The sun was streaming through the window, bouncing of the Golden Boy's glasses. The side of his cheek alight, his mouth parted in a petal-like invitation. An open invitation to pluck those lips from the ripened branch, take them, claim them, make... And then Harry Potter moved.

The sun wasn't on his face, no longer kissing his cheek, his ros-petal lips forming words. Words. Have to concentrate. What's he saying?

"Malfoy?"

"Potter."

Ron was frowning. The day had been fine so far, he got to drive a car, spent the day with his best mate, met with Hermione, and, now the Ferret was here to ruin the day. Just like the conceited prick.

"Look Malfoy, if you've got nothing to say, then do as all a favor and leave."

Draco looked, and noticed Ron for what seemed like the first time that morning. He opened his mouth as if to retort, and yet... Nothing came out. He shut it again. This worried Hermoine. She didn't worry about a lot, either. But when she worried about something, she had a good reason. And Malfoy not retorting was most definitely a good reason. People do not overhaul their character in three months very often, and it was simply not in the boy's genes to allow an insult to slip by, un-retorted.

So that was why the current situation merited retrieve from he book, and a shift of attention to the three other bodies in the room. Draco did not look like himself. For one, he was out of breath. And Malfoys never show any sign of physical exertion what so ever. It was like a white rose with blue spots. It wasn't done. And he was staring extremely intently at Harry. Harry was being scrutinized? Examined? Hermoine didn't know. And that was something else that most definitely never happened.

tobealineornottobetobealineornottobetobealineornottobe

"Please leave."

Draco heard the words, but did not obey. He was here for a reason. And that reason was standing right in front of him.

"Now." Harry reached out, placing his hands on his chest. His mind whited out, even if only for a second. The hands were leaving holes in his flesh. Draco's arms ached, they wanted to hold the body, the waist, the... everything in front of him. But his mind had already regained control. His body singed in protest, but he pulled back, drew away, and molded his features into long-practiced disgust.

"Do. Not. Touch. Me." He growled, body screaming. "Ever. Got that, Potter?" he spat. And with that, he spun on his heals, stalking of to go torment some first-years.

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Wohoo! Third chapter complete! Sorry for any delay, but Fanfiction wouldn't connect. And, sorry if this is a little bit rushed, but I did half of it a week ago, so my train of thought was a little broken. I may fix it later, but... I'm publishiung it now in its (possible) unfinished-ness!

Thank you reviewers!

I still like more reviews!


	4. Chapter 4

Tomato Paste

Chapter 4

The-rose-has-wilted

_Dammit. Dammit Dammit Dammit..._ Draco could go on like this for a while. Why on Earth did have to have flipping Harry Potter as a mate? It was sick. Sick and twisted. What had he, Draco Malfoy, done to deserve such punishment. He wasn't any worse than any other Slytherin. He stalked along, with a look that could make second-years evaporate into thin air. It was working well, he couldn't deal with anyone right now.

The floor rattled a little with each step he took, each footfall. He Stormed the hall, the corridors, others closing the doors as he passed. Most everyone knew not to cross a Malfoy when they were mad. Actually, the only one who never seemed to grasp that simple fact was... Potter! He growled. That was not a thought path he needed to follow any further. His stalking continued.

It wasn't as if there weren't any other people available when whatever god who made this happen put them together. With 7 billion other people in the world, it just HAD to be Potter! Couldn't he have at least gotten a Slytherin. This was practically capital punishment. That was illegal in England now any ways, right? He was pretty sure. Suddenly, he stopped.

Door. Open the Door. He had already arrived at the door to his compartment, his anger still peaking, venting past his eyes, clouding thoughts. The door practically splintered in his grasp, the wood was wrecking, the door shoved out of the way. He closed it again. And sat down. Quiet as a cat. And that was scary, in-and-of itself.

Just like a leopard.

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Poor Harry was confused. Very confused. Why was it he was so cold. Seconds ago, he had been hot, the sun baking them to crisps, now, now it was cool. Everything was cold, the wood, the books, the leather seats, the... everything!

Well, actually, that wasn't true there was _one_ warm thing. And that was the root of his confusion. For the warm thing was Draco Malfoy, of all things. He had been warm, nice, pleasant... Wait. Wait a minute. Draco was "pleasant?" Something must be wrong with him. His perfect little glass world, it no longer sparkled like diamonds. It was cracked. Draco had com along, a huge mallet, smacked his glass bubble, and now, here he was, frantically spreading glue on every crack he could reach. He wasn't cold, it was pleasant, he was fine, he wasn't lonely, his heart didn't...

Truly, though, it wasn't as if Draco had broken the glass. He had just illuminated them. Perhaps the cracks had always been there, yet Harry had looked at it with half closed eyelids. Come to think of it, he couldn't think of a time when he had felt completely content. He had just been the silent winter observer, staring into the nice warm candle-lit cabin from out in the cold. A candle can warm you, but it cannot fill your heart.

Can it? No, it can't, not really. But that didn't mean he, that he, that Malfoy, Draco would be the solution. He looked at Ron and Hermoine. They looked the same as they had before. He sat back down, the seat warm, yet cool to him. Heremoine was still reading, Ron still complaining about potions, and homework, and everything else. All was still the same. Hermoine noticed him staring, and looked up.

"Something wrong, Harry?" she asked, putting the book down next to her.

"No, I think I'm okay."

"Alright, but if.."

"I'm okay."

She studied his face. Actually, he didn't look okay. He looked pale, his hair matted just a little, as if he was outside on a hot day. And, unless she was mistaken, he was shaking. Just a little. She would have to remember to drag him to Madame Pomfrey. Honestly, those boys ever paid enough attention to their ailments. She always wound up telling them to do it. She sighed, picking up her book. Suddenly, it was a little less interesting.

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He had heard it said that time heals all wounds. Well, he didn't know about that, but it certainly helped cool them off. And, for a stab-wound like this, time, even in small quantities, was a good thing. For now, the steam had ceased threatening to make his head explode, and was instead only simmering below the surface. It was then that he noticed the other inhabitants in the booth.

Pansy and Blaise were no longer speaking. Their eyes never left him. Though, unlike before, they were no longer filled with lust. It was something else. That was it. It was fear. Draco Malfoy, deadly when silent, dangerous otherwise. That was clever; he could have laughed. But, that would require letting loose emotions. And, if that were to happen, the booth's windows would be broken, the others dead, the seats ripped, the... He was getting silly. No, not silly. Hysterical. That was it.

But he couldn't let them see that. He pulled back the reigns, forced himself to lean back against the seat. He needed a minute, then he would be fine. Actually, leaning back was kind of nice. Come to think of it, he was actually pretty tired. His eyes started to flutter, and he was starting to drift off, just a little. He had expended a lot of energy. It was natural for him to be tired, right? He spared a glance to the two wayward fools also breathing his oxygen. They were still afraid. Good. That was how Draco liked his friends, his peers. Fear is a powerful motivator.

For what was the second time that day, a small amount of happiness washed over him. Draco Malfoy was back. Back in control of his life, the Slytherins, his world. Even though his stay in the world of not-in-control was brief, he quickly determined which one he liked better. And he was determined not to return to his previous position. It was going to be okay, Harry Potter or not.

Draco took a deep breath, then let it go. In and out, in and out. It was calming. Very calming. He closed his eyes. And, slowly started to let himself go a little. The train started to move. Or was he just noticing it now? It was... was... quite relaxing. The gently, repetitive clacking of the tracks was lulling, sweet, controlled... And then he fell asleep. Blaise and Pansy relaxed, just a little. Cats are less dangerous when subdued.

Or so they say.

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And then it was raining. Hard, pattering against the windows. For, it was late afternoon bow, the whole train sleepy and cool. Harry Potter did not need this. He had already been cool; now he was cold. Ron was snoring quietly, Hermoine once again engrossed in her story. They were isolated. The train was quiet now, most of its occupants vying for Ron's current state. Harry looked out the window at the rain, coming down in buckets. Now it was dark out there, too. It wasn't bad, actually. It was quite soothing, even if he was cold.

"Are you sure your okay?" His thought patterns were interrupted, and he turned to glance at Hermoine. "And before you tell me that your fine, I want to say that you don't look fine. You should go to Madame Pomfrey's once we get to Hogwarts."

Actually, she could be right. Perhaps he was just sick. That would \be nice. He could have a true reason for feeling like dying; one that wasn't stupid. He could see himself saying it. "Draco Malfoy touching me made me feel sick because now he's not touching me." That truly had the potential to get him strapped to a bed in St. Mungo's for a year or two. And that was not what he wanted.

Then again, if he were declared insane, they could probably pump him full of potions in order to relieve his "symptoms." Is a broken heart a symptom? Symptom of what, then? Maybe Madame Pomfrey could find a cure, that would be nice. A lot of things would be nice that don't seem so likely to happen any time soon. He sighed.

"I'm going to take a walk," he said, and got up, rolling the door open and closed carefully so as not to wake Ron. He turned around and started walking down the corridor, caring very little about which direction he was headed. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, staring at his feet. This was turning out to be a long day. He walked along, slowly turning with his steps. He arrived at door after door, never stopping. He saw no need to. They wouldn't change the outcome of his life, now would they? He watched the carpet beneath his feet. It got a little nicer, then a little worse. He watched the scuff marks, the boot prints. Boot prints upon boot prints; a common person's palimpsest, no less.

When, he saw one door in particular that held his interest. It's wood around the handle was splintered, shards of it lying on the floor. The rest of the door was untouched. He wasn't sure why that was so interesting, but it called to him to peer inside, at what person had done that.

He gasped. Like sleeping, beauty, there was Draco, eyes closed. He wasn't so bad when he was asleep. All the evil had evaporated, leaving the creature before him. His features were relaxed, and he sat with a beautiful ease, lap open. His heart lurched. His hands were shaking, his eyes were tearing. He wanted... needed Draco to hold him. When someone in the car shifted. Blaise appeared in his picture window, touching Draco's shoulder. Harry stumbled backwards, bumping into the compartment, behind him,. Draco's eyes were fluttering open. He turned around, speeding off. The feeling never dulled. But, he didn't like Draco anyways. His body liked Draco, Harry Potter himself still disliked the boy with all the room left in his mind.

He wandered back towards his compartment, tears no longer threatening to burst their banks. His body may be treasonous, but part of his mind was still sane, after all. He hoped. Because love isn't a permanent thing is. It goes away after ages, it ceases its relentless hold on your heart if you just kick hard enough, right? He had to be right. There was to much at risk if he was wrong. Draco didn't like him anyways. He said so earlier. He was still the prick that he was. Harry's stupid hormones were the thing to blame, after all. They were causing this entire thing, fabricating this web of lies. Harry refused to be a blind sheep.

He swallowed the thickness in his thought, and pulled the door open again, back at his room. He sat down on the seat, breathing in and out, staring out the window. Hermoine didn't look up this time. If you tell someone that you're okay long enough, they may start to believe you... And that could be a good or bad thing. But for Harry, it was serving mostly as relief.

And then the train arrived at Hogwarts, And people started bustling again. That was what he needed, to get the blood moving again. And that was all the attention he gave to the situation. He laded the luggage back into the carriage, ready to carry him off to safety. Safety of the dorm rooms, where he could talk with his friends. He got in the car, but wasn't seeing more than a blur.

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Oh Boy. Sorry for the delay. Thank you for the reviews, sorry the ending to this one kind of... sucks. It will be done in detail next chapter.

I Like Reviews!


	5. Chapter 5

Tomato Paste

Chapter 5

The-rose-has-wilted

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He walked off the train. He was strangely calm for the situation. He could load the luggage in peace, after all. He breathed in and out, lungs expand and contract as they do. Harry could stand up, past the ghosts of lives past, into the cart, and wait for a while. Hermoine and Ron climbed in afterwards, shutting the doors. Hermoine's plans would go into action as soon as they got past the doors. She could float him off to the infirmary.

He had his hands in his lap. Harry could open his mouth and talk; making conversation without saying anything. No Freudian slips yet, but who could be the judge to say when "Draco" would slip out his mouth, an illustrious fish. He decided it was best to just keep it shut, and look out the windows. He had been doing a lot of that lately. Pixilation was fine, too. He could stare at the sky for a long, long time. Banter was ringing in his ears; he did his best. Conversation did not equate flippant remarks, now did it?

He could feel the wheels under his feet, rumbling along, cobblestones bouncing in his ears. It was just enough to throw his thoughts off-kilter. They would be at school soon, breathing full memories. Was this what leeway felt like? If so, he was pretty sure he didn't like it. He could see the doors ahead of him, ready to open. They would enter, then march right up to their pre-assigned dormitories. He contemplated whether he should bring his current problem to the attention of the teachers. But Dumbledore knew everything already, and he certainly didn't fancy informing Snape of any weakness, hero complex or not. It would do much better to have a day and night to sleep on the decision. After all, hastiness was never a good thing. Except, perhaps, in matters of life and death. But Harry was most sure this was not one of those.

Ron looked up. Harry wasn't looking too god, now was he. Tinkling little bells ran through his head. As a matter of fact, Harry had started to look bad only after their meeting with the ferret! "I'll bet he threw an unspoken curse on Harry, the weasel! Without calling a duel!' His expression was one of muddled discontent, if you will. Ron's temper was well known, after all. He Wasn't very good at subtle. But he didn't say anything just this once. Call it a freak occurrence if you will, but he felt that perhaps Harry didn't want to talk about it. Amazing perception for him.

And it was then that the slowing of the coach signaled their arrival at Hogwarts. And they formed their lines, preparing for their heading to the Great Hall for the sorting. The halls were all the same as they used to be, same stone and mortar placed in the same clockwork pattern. Reassurance was sweet as molasses to our two starved mates-to-be. Sweetened cream and violas, no doubt. But Draco would never admit to that, now would he. He'd pray for anything but. The lines moved in the way that lines should move; single file rows moved into the four tables. New arrivals staring down at them, terrified looks in their eyes. Wild animals set loose in an awesome playground.

But before that, the lines had to walk in rows, next to each other, bitter rivalries put on hold for a short while. And two pairs of eyes kept drifting towards each other, one pretty person seeking solace, if unwillingly. Strange, wasn't it, to see two turning heads in rows that went straight ahead. And there wasn't too much scenery there, now was there? A certain bleakness is in a row, isn't there. too much plainness and consistency.

Two sets of eyes divulged towards enemy tables. And they fund their seats, each one cheering as each new name was called. But no one was concerned with that. Everyone was more concerned with the feast that would come, after the proceedings were completed. Percy didn't care for this part very much. He sighed, breathing slowly. It would be a while before they could eat. Hannah didn't care for it either. But both mouths remained shut, from across their various tables.

Many of the Hufflepuffs occasionally diverted their gazes towards the ceiling, enchanted as it was. The stars ticked dots out in the deep blue color of the night. Wasn't it pretty? But it was just a ceiling. But, most things are just those things anyways. It doesn't make them any less cherish-able. It just depends on how you look at things. Most thing can be either pretty or ugly, depending on the time of day. So few clouds tonight.

Then there was a large cheer let out, because everyone could eat, as the food appeared. They ate, and ate. But what would you do, a wolf who hasn't eaten anything of substantial food quality? Eating was a good option. But Harry's full stomach didn't ease the thumping of many other major organs. Who had time to talk? They sit here, debating the mathematics of the whole situation. You can kill someone with a hand. But you can save someone with a hand as well. So he supposed it all depended on your point of view.

But people were dismissing already, because time moves fast, stealing away when you do things. It had stitched a few folds of cloth out of your reach. And that was okay with a few of them. But Harry never made it back to his dorm. Hermoine was gripping his hand, and tugging him at sufficient speed to beat a peregrine falcon in a skydiving match. Fast. Aluminum was wearing thin. But this girl had a mission, spinning down the Corridors, taking stairs in flights. Violins illustrating the choppiness of the scene.

She was breathing hard, as Harry was when they arrived at the infirmary. At so late, Madame Pomfrey was surly expecting no injuries, but she was in for a surprise. Tending to the potions, she spun on her heal when she heard Hermoine call her name. Poor Madame Pomfrey knew this wasn't going to be good.

imsickofmakingupwittythingsformylinestosayimsickofmakingupwittythingsformylinestosay

Somewhere in a Slytherin dormitory bed, one boy was awake. Everyone else was silent with sleep. But a churning stomach was quite the incentive. And Draco Malfoy was not liking it one bit. His heart was lurching; something wasn't right. Something was most definitely not right. He could Swear that Harry... 'No! Bad Thoughts!' He couldn't stand it. His mind was wandering, his feet refusing to remain still, adrenalin filling his veins. Something was going to break. Soon. And then he closed his eyes.

Harry filled his thoughts, but he was ill.

Snap! went the nerve.

Draco was on his feet, hair whipped back. He could run with shoes on. Screw the curfew. But he had an excuse. Veelas don't need to follow rules. Pointed portrait frames framed his view, tumbling down the staircases. Something pulled him, one note resounding in his mind. He could follow the chords down hallways, and 'round corners. But his mind was screaming. This was most definitely un-Malfoy-like. It simply wasn't done. He could run off a list as long as your arm as to the number of things he was doing wrong at that moment. But that nerve must have been the one that connected his muddled thoughts to his body's controls, because they were not responding.

He was breathless by the time he got down to the hospital bed Harry was at.

lookalinelookalinelookalinelookalinelookaline

"Hand me that potion," She directed Hermoine. Harry was in a hospital bed, looking, in most respects, unwell. That potion should help bring his shakes under control. She asked him to sit up. Yet Madame Pomfrey was very worried. She had called Dumbledore, hadn't she? And he said he would come along after the important business he had, didn't he? And She told him it was Harry, and He said this business is very important. So that was that. And she had to make due with just Hermoine. The other teachers had obligations to their pupils, so they weren't present.

So it was in that position that Draco Malfoy burst in, out of breath and red in the face. But even from a distance, Both women could tell, Draco wasn't home. There was a feral, feline glint to his eyes. He was growling, low and threatening. Hands clenched into fists. He was not more than an animal. And that was scary. Eyes burning holes in the cloth, teeth showing anger, shoulders were ready. He walked slowly, power echoing in his footfalls, whisperings passing past his face. Edges of his body were no longer stable. He was a nuclear explosion waiting to happen.

"Get. Away. From. Him."

That didn't need a verbal answer. Neither witch had any intention of allowing Draco passing. Harry was sitting up now. Eyes were open. But he wasn't afraid. And perhaps that was scaring the other occupants. They stood their stances, the tile floor stable below their feet, the room dim.

"Now." Draco let energy off him in waves, crashing around the room. The cracking and stumbling. The room wash quivering on its foundations, rocking itself. And the girls were off their feet, floor-bound. The shaking slowed, screaming of mortar ceased, the glass no longer grinding. The bottles and potions on the floor, shattered in piles. Piles of wet glass. But you could polish stones into diamonds soon enough.

Harry found himself being held by Draco. Only half of Draco. Human Draco was long gone at this point. Veela Draco was quite fine, mate in arms. But Harry still wasn't scared. His lips were getting closer, coming down. Ready to attack; he could see it in his eyes. Something wasn't quite right, because eyes should be clear, not cloudy. No one could see that but him right now. Your a mantelpiece right now. Strong beliefs or not, just a mantelpiece.

A breath ghosted over Harry's cheek, eyes looked into his, they were staring in tandem, breathing synchronized. Then Draco pulled him up, lips brushing, sending the teens body into buzzing. Warmth worked its way down all his extremities, letting him hold onto Draco's Shoulders. His color was returning, his heart racing. Draco's eyes were a stormy grey, he noticed, eyes half closed. He should not like this. This was his enemy, his aggressor, his tormentor. He should push him away. But he didn't He was sick for contact, desperate for Draco's touch. He was truly helpless.

But that isn't the way heroes should be. They should be strong, always in control. He was disgusted with himself. This could not be happening. It was wrong. So wrong. His stomach was rolling. But it was full of butterflies. Perhaps it was true. Hate is just one step away from love. But that couldn't be true. it must be a lie. A little white lie you tell yourself. But Harry couldn't push away. He couldn't push away that delicious feeling of contentment crawling through his flesh.

When his side found contact with the floor. And pain shot up his body. Draco had let go, allowing the other body to fall to the floor Draco Draco was back in control. A look of disgust and horror played out on his face, cracking his features. Harry held his breath, body quaking.

"Shit. Shit. Shitshitshit..." Draco was moaning. He spun around, tumbling out the door. That was most definitely NOT the way it should have gone. He screamed at himself. _He was not a true love of mine._ He did not just like that. That was disgusting. _He was not a true love of mine._ He wanted to throw up. But the pain in his body was a little less. But he was going to go insane. He must be. He could...

Harry was still on the floor when he left, doors swinging shut.

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I hope this is good. It didn't turn out quite how I had expected. Thank you for the reviews.

I still want more!


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

the-rose-has-wilted

Tomato Paste

Schedules had been doled out, even to those in hospital beds. The light filtered through the windows, immense patterns lining the floors, cavities waiting to be filled. Harry was in bed again, crisp sheets like paper peeling away. And, like a wet paper ship, it went floating away on the big bay bordering on Hogwarts; bordering on insanity. Perhaps the dark army was still present, but the day was not able to be grasped away, stolen into night; not even by them.

His eyes opened, he was bold again. No bruises were left uncovered. Harry was breathing, no cast restricting his lungs. Perhaps memories fade if you beg them to. He certainly was. No gas was left in his system, idling on autopilot. But soon, that might fade.

And then the door burst open, and Ron and Hermoine came running past, another stunning entrance. She had a bruise on her cheek, no fight having taken place. Then suddenly, it dawned on him. And his brain pulled out that last night's movie reel, and played it forcibly behind his eyes. And he winced, even if just in the smallest, little, measurable, amount. And so no one noticed his tiny nervous twitch.

"Harry!" They had found their voices, throats no longer stuffed with cotton. They were upon the bed now, mouths moving, dispatching a load of worries into his ears. He shook his head in the littlest way, clearing his mind, allowing the lose and saturated waters back out. "How are you? Are you alright, mate? What did Draco do to you?" Screaming, wanting answers. Unfortunately, he had none. And that was what he said. But now, he had nothing left, no answers.

He could push back the covers, let them crinkle at his feet. And he did, sitting up, his clothes cinging to his body, his eyes open, glasses on the small table sitting next to him. They clicked on the table as his hand wasn't as stable as it could have been.

"Dumbledore wants to see you, in his office," Hermoine spoke. She motioned toward the door. He sent us to get you.

"And I thought you had come just because you cared," he smiled. She blushed. Ron looked about as nonchalant as possible, after he had found out exactly who was the primary suspect in this matter. The sun was still shining, and Harry bent over, lacing his shoes on, picking his coat up from the rack, when his sluggish brain thought of something: "Wait, I can't just leave. Madame Pomnfrey will have my head.

"That won't be a problem. She's with Dumbledore, as well as ugh.. Snape." She gave a shudder, illustrating her disgust towards the greasy man. Ron gave an appreciative nod towards her statement. Or rather, the manner in which she spoke.

Harry got up out of the bed, groaning. The robes soon around his collar, They warmed his body, buffeting some of the cold. The cold that had drained from his body. He could sing, open his lungs. No longer afraid. Draco was some aphrodisiac. Ha. That was a good one. The git was more a poison than anything else. This couldn't possibly be good. They were up, waltzing in no particular order towards the door. They pushed them open, and continued loud banter all the way to The corridor. Large windows let in the sun, the view of the lake impressive. The stone was cool to the touch, the carpeting on the stairs magically intact. People meandered through the halls, a winding Missouri river of wizards and witches.

The eagle, wings outspread, greeted them and would spin, allowing them entrance. It too was cold, glittering in the damp light of this now darker hall. A simple left turn had made that one obvious, changing, the glass gone from yellow to green. The stairs they followed brought them up, the room full to the brim with books. Silk, taffeta, cotton and fleece, people and phoenix. They turned to look at him. And his stomach flipped. Had you asked him later, he would have denied that he felt anything.

Cold grey eyes examined him, his heart fluttering. His mind roped off the part of him that was listening. It would have to be hospitalized. If part of a person's brain can lose it's sanity, that was most certainly the case. That white porcelain skin was misleading. Not weak. Strong. A silent killer, and breaker of hearts. Hearts weren't as fragile as they looked, but the beautiful porcelain had broken the stone of a loveless life.

And those eyes, so cold. Metallic, never allowing it to show. No emotion finds it's way out of them. But he knew better. And he started to notice the others. Dumbledore, Snape, Draco's mother, Ron's parents. It was a regular party! And Dumbledore cleared his throat, for a silent room. And he began to speak, all eyes fixed on his.

"As some of you may have noticed," He began, glancing around the room as he did, seeing the looks of interest on their faces. "There has been some... unusual activity that a few of our students have had the misfortune of being thrust into." And his eyes were twinkling, a small upturning of lips into a smile. "Oh, I almost forgot. How rude of me; would anyone like a lemon drop?" The bowl came around, filled with the muggle sweet. Almost no-one took the offer, needless to say.

"Harry," he turned to the boy in question, eyes twinkling at full force. "Do you know what a veela is?" Hermoine's eyes shot open, her hand raised. Dumbledore smiled; "I had a feeling you might know, Miss Granger. However, Harry is the one who needs to know."

"I... I don't really know anything about them,," Harry muttered, looking expectantly at the Headmaster. "How does this concern me, though?"

"You may soon find out," he answered, stroking his beard. "For you see, Draco here is a veela." And Draco flinched at that, even in a tiny way.

"But, Professor, veela's have mates," Hermoine interrupted their two-way conversation, inviting others to speak.

"Very acute, Miss Granger."

"And Harry has been... _Ohmygoodness!_"

"I would repeat your praise, Sir," Snape cut in, "But the girl already knows how perfect she is. However, Miss Granger's O.W.L. scores are not the item this meeting is focusing on."

"Quite right, Severus, quite right."

And then most everyone had something to say, the circle of chairs they were in echoed their noise, funneling it up towards the spire.

"Excuse me," Harry cut in, silencing the other voices. "But you never answered my question." Hermoine looked at him in disbelief. How could boys be so dense? Snape rolled his eyes; his thoughts were similar. Of course, he replaced the word "boys" with "Potter," but it was basically the same.

"What I mean, Harry, is that you are Draco's Mate."

"What?!"

"It's exactly that, my dear boy."

"What?! No! That can't possibly be right. I don't just dislike him," He was nearly yelling, his finger shaking as he stabbed it toward the offending Veela. With each word his voice gained a new measure of desperation. "I _hate_ him. He has made my life here as bad as he could, he..."

"I can assure you, my boy, it is most certainly correct," Dumbledore's voice authoritative as he cut him off. The twinkle in his eye had dimmed; this was not going as well as it could. But no matter, they would come to their senses soon. He hoped. That was as good as he could expect. "You will have a separate room in which you will both live for the remainder of your stay at Hogwarts. You will both need to be with each other if you wish to survive." The ancient man motioned towards a pile of poorly stacked literature on his desk. "These are the books we felt would be relevant for your current position. I advise you to read up on them."

Harry's mouth was no longer closing. It was left hanging. Madame Pomfrey stepped in. "You may have particularly unstable health," she took a breath. "So, you must tell us if either of you," She paused, giving a look to both boys, "start feeling sick."

Draco had been oddly silent, almost removed from the entire situation. As well he should. He was a Malfoy, who shows as little emotion as is possible. And his mother was there, perched in perfection. Narcissa realized that for a pureblooded family, this was a scrape in the mood. But they would come up salvaging what grace was left. This was the way to do it, mouth forming a tight line. That was how one looked in control of their situation.

"You may take the day off, to sort yourselves out. I will give you the password to your room in a moment..."

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They trudged down the hall in unison, sullen shadows plastered over their bodies. Draco couldn't believe it. As if having Bloody Potter as a mate wasn't bad enough, he had to stay with him! It was a travesty. He stared at his feet, anger stretching over his face. This had to violate at least ten codes of moral conduct! They couldn't stand each other. The Gods must be laughing their heads off right now, grinning with glee.

He spared a glance towards his wayward companion, looking at his eyes, staring at the floor. He shaded his eyes with those big round glasses. Actually, despite being pale, he was... kind of...cute. And then he smacked his forehead. Draco was going to pretend his traitorous mind had not just had that thought.

There. That was better, and so much easier. And, they were "home," muttering the password and pushing open the wide doors. 'Trust it to Dumbledore to create something so gaudy;' to say that it was ridiculously Gryffindor would be an understatement. Draco decided to stand in the doorway, his mouth hanging open. That is, until he remembered that Malfoys do not do so. He walked in, arms folded over his chest. Harry noticed he would have looked good with a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth. He shook his head. Don't think about him, was the idea.

Not that any of those had been very good lately. But he was tired now, why should it bother him. He collapsed on the couch, taking up as much room as he could. He closed his eyes; the light was still on. He wasn't going to get up. Draco stalked off towards his own room, presumably to go pout. Harry lay awake for amoment, before setting his glasses on a small table adjacent to the couch. He closed his eyes to blink...

That was that. He fell asleep.

The strangest thing to happen in the night was this one solitary movement: Someone put out the light.

Draco had a stubbed toe next morning. Draco didn't want to talk about it.

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Wow. Sorry for the time between updates. Here's the thing: I think I may take a break from this story. I want to do an American Dragon fic, and I'm not so interested in this right now. I'm not sure how often I'll update this fic. Thanks for the reviews! I know that chapter 5 sucked. Sorry. I also want to do some one shots. I enjoyed writing this. It may or may not be done.

On another note- I recently got the Earliest Liz Phair songs from They are great. I would recommend you look at it, but read up on her first. She's rather... frank.


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